


The Book Of Samuel

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Spoilers for the end of Captain America The Winter Soldier, cap 2 spoilers, winter soldier spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:19:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America 2 Spoilers, Spoilers for Captain America The Winter Soldier. I'm putting the summary in the notes for a month or two, to avoid spoilers. But if you've seen the end of the movie, this is to do with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book Of Samuel

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Sam knows better than most just how valuable the presence of a friend can be. Or, "one of the things Sam ignores when he's at Steve's bedside."

The quiet in Steve's room is relative. You can never have real silence in a hospital.

The machines monitor him with clicks and pips and hisses, the voices outside pass by without consequence, the men stationed at Steve's doors change shift every six hours - and every single one of those men has looked like leaving makes them itch. (Sam is well aware that most if them would line up to stand watch.)

Each time Sam turns a page, it sounds like an avalanche, each time he shifts in his chair, it sounds like a tree has been felled.

But Steve doesn't move, doesn't complain. He looks too big for his bed, to broad for his pillows. It seems strange that the gown can be so large on him.

He's awake – Sam can see as much. Steve's eyelashes are very long and Sam can see them dip occasionally whenever Steve blinks but, with his head turned away and his cheekbone still fairly swollen, discoloured, stuck with stitches, Sam can't tell much else.

He turns a page.

Sam wonders what Steve is thinking of, if Steve is thinking of anything at all – what parts of this will have stuck in Steve's mind.

With anyone else, Sam would expect noise and sound. Flames and falling and the sound of the air punched out of you. Broken glass and screaming metal. But he also wouldn't be surprised if Steve remembered every detail. He doesn't know how far the serum goes, what kind of work it does, so he can't tell if Steve's staring at the wall or seeing everything he's ever done in full-color replay.

He doesn't know if Steve is thinking of now or then, of the people he saved now or the people who lived a life when he'd died. 

He turns a page.

He knows, because Steve finds it difficult to mention, that there's something there, that there are things Steve drags around like bricks behind him, things he stows when there isn't time and hefts back onto his shoulders without even meaning to when the danger has passed. He knows, because Steve won't talk about it, that there's a great deal there for him to talk about. 

When he's ready.

If he's ready.

Sam's seen a lot of this kind of thing – there's no way to avoid it. Post-traumatic stress is, at least, named and treated these days but he doesn't doubt that the lingering stoicism of the Second World War will have a great deal of bearing on how Steve heals from here. If Steve heals.

It could be anything now – so much time has passed and so much has happened that it's hard to guess at triggers. It's just likely that there'll be some. 

Except that Sam's not sure. Steve doesn't speak except to be self-deprecating or to make wistful jokes. It's all very well that Sam knows how they cooked food in 1940s Brooklyn but he knows nothing about how Steve feels to have had it all ripped away from him, the jagged wound reopened time and again. 

He knows there are triggers, he knows this will leave Steve with more.

He turns a page.

He's heard so many stories now. Dreams that leave you awake in the darkness of your room, certain that you have to hold your breath for the sake of the men around you; the dropped drinking glass that has you running to get under cover before the rest of the mortars hit; the names that sound so similar to the shouted orders you had to follow that you're standing at attention or halfway to your weapon before you remember who you are, that you're unarmed, that you're in D.C, not Baghdad.

And will Steve be able to lift his shield without remembering SHIELD? Will Spring turn to Summer turn to Autumn turn to _Barnes_?

Sam doesn't know if Steve's an ocean or a dam, if Steve's let it all leave him and accepted it or if it's all walled up inside him, but he suspects the latter. Which is dangerous. Because if Steve is a dam that hasn't broken yet, then what will it take to do it? And what will happen when it does?

He turns a page.

Sam could put on more music, but that would mean getting up, and this relative-quiet is a fragile thing, precious as it seems to be. If he moves, he'll distract Steve, and Sam's been where Steve is – literally and figuratively. The quiet has a purpose now, while Steve's brain recovers from the shock, or learns to accommodate it at least.

They've been here for hours, and Steve won't scar. Apparently, the serum will take care of that – the stitches will drop out and he'll look exactly like he did before. But Sam knows scars aren't always visible, and Steve hasn't moved beyond what it took to turn his head away, hasn't spoken except to let Sam know he was awake. 

Sam turns a page and something changes – he doesn't know what it is. Later, he'll think maybe it's Steve's breathing, how the sound of the hospital blanket shifting over the fabric of his gown changed in rhythm. Sam says nothing when Steve's eyelashes dip and come up darker, spiked and glittering, but still needs to listen closely for the hitch in Steve's breaths.

One doesn't come for a while, and it's small and soft when it does. Sam settles his book on his lap, resting it over his knee as he waits, just in case. He knows that Steve won't turn his head, won't ask for Sam's hand to hold, won't sob or scream. Steve doesn't need a shoulder to cry on – doesn't _want_ one – but Sam knows his presence helps. Not being alone helps. 

Sam sits very still, Steve lies very still and it's only a few minutes before Steve whispers, “Sorry,” voice rough as his breathing evens out again. 

Sam shakes his head, lifting his book once more. “ 'S what I'm here for, man,” he says.

Steve breathes fairly deeply, a reasonably long amount of time taken for each rise-fall of his chest, and he lies very still. He's a quiet man, Sam has learned.

Sam turns the page and maybe, just maybe, Steve turns one too.


End file.
